The Picture Portrait Gallery
by Kang Xiu
Summary: The secret of les Amis: really they all hate one another. A study of each member as they go about it. Now it is time for Grantaire's monologue.
1. The Gallery of Paintings

Very well, cards on the table. I'm back. There aren't any more excuses left. Now that you've humiliated me and brought me down and made me break my word and destroyed my life, enjolr--enjoy. :)

* * *

"The Picture Portrait Gallery"

* * *

Prologue: The Gallery of Paintings

* * *

Courfeyrac rose, rather unsteadily, and smiled benevolently at the other Amis, who were crowded about him in a friendly crush, sitting on chairs on the table or the floor, ready to hear whatever story he was about to relate. Only Enjolras was sitting apart, writing, but if any of them had looked over, they would have caught him off his guard and listening, with a curious, half-tired interest, as though he didn't mind pausing thoughtfully in his work to hear Courfeyrac speak. 

It had begun simply enough. Bahorel, who was backwards on a chair, had treated everyone in honour of his twenty-sixth birthday. The six bottles of wine had been divided into eighteen glasses, and he guarded his two carefully, apparently concerned that someone might try to steal them. Courfeyrac had already stolen Enjolras' second, because Enjolras never drank more than one glass a day, and everyone knew that any way.

Now, encouraged by everyone's eyes and Enjolras' second glass, he stood, one hand firmly on the back of his chair, and began his lecture. Jean Prouvaire clasped his hands on his knee and leaned forward attentively.

"You know, mes amis, that there are rules to drunkenness."

"Blasphemy!" cried Grantaire incoherently. He had bought a bottle for himself already and drunk that in addition to his two glasses.

"No, no," said Courfeyrac, still with the benevolent smile. "It's all quite simple. There are different sorts of men in the world, and they have different ways of doing things. There are certain types of men whom one never expects to go out walking for pleasure, and certain others who would never do it unless they had a girl on one arm. Well, the same thinking applies to the drinking of alcohol. For example, I, myself, am permitted to get as thoroughly intoxicated as I please, as long as I make sure to leave regular intervals of sobriety. I may be lightly drunk quite often, because I'm a young rake, but I'm intending to get out of the experiences of youth and go on to become something marvellously dreadful and dried-up, without being held down by having got myself addicted to this stuff. Bahorel is much the same."

"Am I?" said Bahorel. "I have no intention of becoming something marvellously dried-up at any time."

"No, of course not. Bossuet is one of us, too. Then there are men like Combeferre and Feuilly, who aren't permitted to get more than lightly drunk at all, because they're too sensible and too hard-working ever to get themselves quite drunk. We trust them to stay mainly sober. We expect it of them. We need men like them to guide us home when we can't tell the way."

"I believe that's meant to be a compliment of sorts," Combeferre murmured to Feuilly, who was perched cross-legged on the table.

"Evidently," said Feuilly comfortably, lifting his glass.

"And then," Courfeyrac went on, "one has men like little Prouvaire here at my feet, who may not get more than lightly drunk, either, but for them it's because they're too pretty and delicate to do so. It would be rather horrifying to see them very drunk. It would, in fact, really embody 'disgustingly drunk' in a very literal manner. Joly, too, is this sort of man." He stretched out his hand and gestured lazily at Joly, who was looking at him with almost a laugh in his eyes. "Lastly, there are the fellows like Grantaire, and they're a different sort altogether. One cannot imagine them _not_ drunk. If they suddenly reformed, why, the world would suddenly be that much emptier. They were meant to be drunk almost continually, with very occasional, very short times in which they may be sober, although the entire time their companions will be uncomfortable and feel the presence of a stranger. They must be drunk."

Grantaire nodded with a thick sort of dignity. Courfeyrac smiled.

At that moment, Enjolras shifted at his table, and said, coldly quizzical, "And myself, Courfeyrac? What sort of man am I? What do the rules say about me?"

"Oh, you! Well, you, sir, you'll never get drunk. You are the sort of man who makes us all look like fools. You abstain beautifully, never taking more than your single glass, and we all have such faith in you that the world would come crashing down to see you disgrace yourself. No, you're hardly allowed, and that's what the rules say of you. Well! Going by what I've said, Grantaire, myself, Bahorel, and Bossuet all need another glass. I'll do the honours if your generosity is expended, Bahorel."

"Hardly," said Bahorel, sounding wounded. He immediately went out and called for another bottle, while Courfeyrac settled back into his chair.

Enjolras was drawing circles in the corner of his paper with the black pen he'd bought yesterday for the purpose of writing essays, and he seemed quite engrossed in his spirals, but suddenly he said, "Well, Courfeyrac, now that you've dictated how we all are to drink, would it surprise you if we disobeyed you?"

"Disobeyed me?"

"Indeed. Suppose Prouvaire thoroughly inebriated himself. Suppose Grantaire took it into his head to avoid drink for a week." Now he was flicking spots of ink into his circles.

"What a horrid thought! I should be quite disappointed, that's what. I am surprised at you, though, because I believe you've embarrassed poor Prouvaire by singling him out, and you've made Grantaire stare. He hardly expected such a cruel thing to be said by anyone. What right have you to go distressing everyone in this manner, I can't fathom," Courfeyrac said, and he was still smiling and looking around at the others, who looked back expectantly but good-naturedly, anticipating a brief, amusing argument but nothing more.

"What right you have to order them about I can't fathom myself."

"My poor Enjolras!" cried Courfeyrac, with great daring. "You're cheating yourself again! You're taking everything in the world perfectly seriously! Now, of course, you are all free men; you may do exactly as you please. It pleases _me_ to have another glass. Bahorel, has that bloody bottle come yet?"

Everyone laughed, and Bossuet poured another glass for Courfeyrac, and the matter was quite forgotten.

(to be continued presently... dun de DUN DUN)


	2. Hylas and the Nymphs

Chapter One: Hylas and the Nymphs

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A week or so later, Jean Prouvaire sat by himself in the café Musain. He had chosen not to go into the back room, where Enjolras was speaking very privately with Combeferre, and as it was rather early, he had the place to himself. He sat against the table, with one hand against his face as though he were holding himself up with it, and had been gradually falling asleep the last thirty minutes. He kept trying to write poetry in his head, and always just as he was composing some grand sentiment, he slowly closed his eyes and suddenly started upright again some five minutes later, shaking himself in order to wake himself up. Eventually, he was going to give up, and either fall asleep entirely or go into the back room and see if Combeferre would listen to him.

People, he gathered, did not really like to listen to him. He had at first thought that the Others were part of a brotherhood, and that they all respected each other very much and wanted to share everything, despite--or perhaps because of--their diverse talents. Then it came to him, as he watched them and spoke with them, that it wasn't that way at all. Moments like the one last week, Bahorel's birthday, when they'd all sat together smiling, were really very rare, and almost amazing.

Enjolras and Grantaire both seemed to despise everyone else, except that Enjolras liked Combeferre in a reserved, polite sort of way, and Grantaire often pretended to like Bossuet because he didn't mind getting drunk and having very serious discussions about trivial things. Bahorel grew easily impatient with all of them, and only really seemed to get on with Feuilly; and Courfeyrac, though he held his arms wide and clapped everyone on the back and always knew what questions to ask to show he was paying attention, obviously could not bear Joly or--or him, himself, Prouvaire. And Jean knew that he was terrified to death of Courfeyrac and Bahorel, and fancied that Feuilly was disgusted by him. Joly wouldn't speak to Grantaire in any event and mainly stayed with Bossuet, and Bossuet had a peculiar way of avoiding Enjolras. The only person whom no one seemed to mind was Combeferre, who wandered among them like a diplomat from a foreign country, conducting affairs and delivering messages and letting everyone know what was going on; but then, even, Grantaire wouldn't speak to him.

It was very strange, Jean thought at first, as he watched them. How did they expect to accomplish things if they were so secretly wrapped up in dissent? If we, he asked himself, don't trust one another, how are we ever to make Enjolras' speeches come true? We can't, can we? But we still meet almost every day, certainly every week. We still speak with one another and spend plenty of time in each other's company. We pretend to be a band of brothers. We _look_ like one. I don't understand quite how it works, except that we do need one another, no matter what we really think. The truth doesn't work, but being united for a cause does. In a way, perhaps, it's a miracle. It's proof that even with adversity we can build things if we need to. We're opposites, we're men who normally would never speak to each other, never know one another, but for Enjolras and his dreams, which we want to make our dreams too, we're willing to make something out of our nothing.

And that, then, seemed like a proper explanation, a philosophical one, and Jean was momentarily satisfied with it; but it didn't change the fact that he didn't think that anyone really wanted to listen to his ideas for poetry. Combeferre listened because he was kind. No one else would, except perhaps Grantaire when he was feeling mellow. Jean spread his thoughts out on papers on the table, and dreamt of being famous someday, invented little interviews between newspaper reporters and himself, wrote the reviews of his volumes in his head, and honestly believed it could happen. Then, he told himself, quiet little Jean would be known all over France, and with his influence he would change things. He devoted himself to writing because he intended to solve all the world's problems eventually through it.

But then he fell asleep again, curled in his chair.

A few moments later, he shook himself back awake, and noticed that there was a girl sitting across from him.

She was little and delicate-looking, with bright eyes and a little mouth, and she had tiny brown curls all poking out around her face from inside her bonnet. To Jean, she resembled a nymph, and he started writing poems in his head again. Perhaps she was a fille de joie, he thought curiously, because most women wouldn't come unescorted into a café, particularly not ones who looked so young, particularly not ones with such beautiful eyes and such pink cheeks. She must be, then. But she was watching _him_ .

Jean blushed and looked at his hands.

"Monsieur?"

He started. She spoke in a harsh, unpleasant voice that was very loud, and it hadn't seemed as though someone as small as she was could possibly have such a big, raucous voice. When he looked at her, she seemed on the verge of breaking. She couldn't possibly speak so-- He bit his lip.

"Mademoiselle? You spoke to me?"

"'Course I spoke to you, little thing. Are you a man or a girl? I can't half tell. If you're a man, though--"

"Who are you?" he asked breathlessly.

"Sophia," she answered, matter-of-factly. She stood and crossed to him. "Out there, you know, there's a hundred men in Paris would want me, but it's cold, and I'll not wait out for them."

"Oh?" said Jean, feeling a sudden inexplicable horror.

"No, but I am looking for a man. A man with a warm place to have a good time." She grinned--her tiny, beautiful face turned horrible and her mouth was full of broken-up teeth. Jean squirmed. She was like a_ fairy_, but a dreadful, evil kind of fairy. She even had a gentle, delicate name; but she still grinned and looked at him and put her hand on his thigh and spoke, in that harsh voice, that voice that sounded of crashing things and broken things and drunken laughing. "I expect that's you, Monsieur. It's always the little ones that really want to have a go of it. The little ones are always fierce." Then she sat on his knee, pressing herself up against him, and his feeling of horror got bigger as a new feeling, of disgust, came on. And the middle of that mixture, there was something else, there was fear. God, he was frightened of her, the pale, tiny, beautiful thing-- "What do you say? You say it'd be a good way to pass one of these cold spring evenings?"

"Mademoiselle, I--I never--" Even then, he still thought it important that she know he only loved.

"Oh, come now, Monsieur. Just the perfect time for it. Perfect day. You're the only man in Paris Sophia picked." She began to touch him, and Jean shrank back. He never let anyone touch him, never, not even Combeferre in his most friendly manner, not even when he was a little drunk; and now this horrible--this thing was touching him all over, and it frightened him, made his throat grow tight, made him want to be ill.

Suddenly he couldn't bear it any longer. He stood roughly, knocking her back, trembling. "No! Don't--don't you touch me, you--God--no, don't dare--"

She pouted and got up, her eyes smiling. At that moment, she looked like a poor, torn angel in a low-cut dress (for her shawl had come undone), and so beautiful, so perfect, so tragic, and Jean was more afraid of her than he had been before. "Now, there, Monsieur, see what you've done, knocking me about. But I'll forgive you quick enough. Do you want to rent a room, or risk me past your concierge?"

"I shan't do a thing. Get away from me. Don't dare touch me again," he said softly. He had always secretly been like this, been able to defend himself, but sometimes he forgot it under the dreamy ideas of being the poet laureate of les Amis, when being their pretend-pet and imagining that they all were fond of him because he was harmless and loved them unconditionally. He had a temper, once, but he was always pretending it didn't exist. She--_she_--had brought it up with her disgusting fawning and touching and smiling, and her voice.

She seemed to realise, now, that she couldn't get Jean to have her, because she recoiled slightly and shrugged, and laughed. "Well, then, I'll risk the cold world outside. I've no shortage of admirers, Monsieur. I pity you." Then she tossed her head, let her bonnet-strings swish coyly, and went out, leaving Jean to hold on to the table and shake.

He wasn't sure if he was shaking because he was angry or because he was still frightened, but he couldn't stop for several moments. He thought of her disgusting little hands on him, and how repulsive it was, how much he _hated_ that, and he had to pass his hands over his eyes and take deep breaths before he could sit again.

What was that? he whispered to himself, when he finally got hold of himself and sat quietly, elbows on the table. What have I done? Who was she? Oh, I haven't been angry in years--what was that? She was like Ophelia; she was like Aphrodite; she was like Daphne; she looked like Echo. How could she have been--like that? Why wouldn't she leave me alone? Oh, God (he shuddered) I've never seen anything like that before. She was like a child, but-- Children don't bare their breasts. Oh, God.

He stared hard at the table and then stood, uncomfortably. He wanted to find someone he knew, someone he trusted, someone he didn't mind standing close to him, and he couldn't think of anyone. It was that difficulty of les Amis being false fast friends. He didn't want any of them, but he had spent so long in their company, with more than enough of them about all the time, that he didn't have any other friends. He didn't meet other fellows. Now there wasn't anyone he could think of to seek out, and he really did want someone, terribly, someone he _trusted_. He didn't trust any of them.

The door to the café opened, and Feuilly came in, taking the cap off his head and sighing, brushing dust from his hair.

"Damnation."

"Bonsoir, Feuilly," said Jean in a tiny, sad voice.

"What's the matter with you to-day?" Feuilly asked sharply, shaking his head.

"I don't know. I'm tired."

"Fancy, you, tired! Silly boy. I've just got out of work, and we've been moving stone all day long." Feuilly smiled in a way that was not quite kind, but almost seemed fond, and Jean recognised at once that of course it was one of those les Amis looks of made-up friendliness. "That's tiring."

"I'm sorry. What are you moving the stone for?"

"New shop in the Rue St. Denis that they're building. I've got myself on as a worker because people don't want pretty things at the moment, and I've nothing to live on."

"They aren't buying your fans?" asked Jean softly.

"Not now. And it's spring, too, but there you are."

"I suppose so."

"Is Enjolras in the back?"

"Yes. With Combeferre; or he was an hour ago."

"Very well, then. I want to speak with him."

"Better luck with your work."

"Thanks," Feuilly said shortly, and went back.

Jean sat again. No, indeed, then, there was no one to talk to, and the matter already seemed trivial. Things always seemed to end up that way. He had no one to tell the important things to. That was why he was writing poetry. He had for-ever got his memoirs with him, and he made up long fantasies of their being discovered after he'd died, and published in volumes; he imagined being remembered, like the journals of famous men who had died years ago, and he waited almost eagerly for it. Someday...

He sat back in his chair, the way he had been before, and concentrated hard. He was spreading the story out on paper in his mind, telling about the little sylphlike thing who turned out to be loud and coarse, writing it like a myth, narrating it like a tragedy, until, once again, he fell asleep.

His hand fell from his face to his knee, and lay, half-open, with the fingers a bit curled; and that was how Louison found him when she went to shake him lightly awake for dinner.


	3. The StoneBreaker

Chapter Two: The Stone-Breaker

* * *

Feuilly went through into the back room, closing the door silently behind him and then wiping the knob off with his worn handkerchief. Enjolras and Combeferre were still standing together, discussing something, but Feuilly noticed at once that they were discussing it very loudly and heatedly. Enjolras looked furious, and Combeferre very determined. Neither of them saw him, as he had taken great care they should not, and he wiped his hands a few times with the handkerchief as he stood watching them. 

Finally he smiled, a tired, bland smile, and said,--

"Bonsoir, Enjolras. Bonsoir, Combeferre."

They turned quickly.

"Bonsoir, Feuilly," said Combeferre pleasantly, straightening his jacket and his cuffs. Enjolras massaged his forehead with one hand, and sighed with a kind of patient suffering.

"I've been helping a group of workers build a new shop in the Rue St. Denis, and I've had time to talk to them."

At once Enjolras stood up straight, watching Feuilly with decided interest, his dark eyes on Feuilly's face. "Have you?" he said calmly. "And?"

"They understand what they're wanted for, and they're entirely willing. They'll gladly set to finding weapons and powder, and most of them know how to make balls. From the work we did to-day, at any rate--we went eight hours only stopping once, and it's heavy work, moving stone--and the pay we got for it--twenty sous for each man--you can see why they hate it and why they want to change." He paused to look at Enjolras calculatingly. Enjolras was a peculiar fellow. He was one of the same rich men that he wrote tracts against, and as proud and pretentious as any member of the nobility. He was a--a thing. One of those. An enigma, Bahorel might say. At first, Feuilly never quite known whether he ought to be proud of Enjolras for fighting in the name of the poor or ashamed of him for the same reason, but in the end he had always decided that he didn't feel anything about Enjolras. All he wanted was to have some of the things Enjolras talked about, like freedom, and security, and food. He shrugged. "They'll be with us. They'll be faithful."

Enjolras nodded. "Thank you."

"Dismissed now, am I, sir?" Feuilly was a little surprised later at how cruel his voice sounded. It had come over him suddenly, without warning, but he looked at Enjolras and thought of his telling all those men who came to listen to him talk about how he was their equal, how every man was their equal, how the whole world was composed purely of equals; but of course Enjolras didn't include women or bourgeoisie or nobles or his parents among those equals. Feuilly didn't care for bourgeoisie or nobles either, but he didn't pretend that he believed everyone was the same and then cast people out of his imaginary equality. And Feuilly had always minded anything to do with parents.

If one were lucky enough to have them, one didn't throw them away. No. Despite nothing. He had a sister, a tiny little sister, who thought he was her father, because he had told her so a long time ago without thinking, because she wanted to know why she didn't have one, but she had never forgotten. He could see the way she looked at him, the poor silly, stupid little girl, could see how much she loved him; and he thought of her real parents, his parents, who were dead (and he didn't even know, truly, whether it were because they had been crushed under the wheels of some rich man's careless carriage or had starved to death or had killed themselves or had been eaten up from the inside by worms, like some gamines' parents). He thought of every man's parents. He thought of Enjolras speaking scathingly of his father, pityingly of his mother. He thought of Enjolras saying he was not their child. He thought of Enjolras pretending he was not their son, and it filled him with anger. It made him despise Enjolras more than Enjolras had ever despised M. Enjolras.

Often he could keep it down or hide it, this dislike, just as he hid his dislike of flippant Courfeyrac, pathetic, girlish Jean, self-absorbed Joly; but every now and then it surged up in him, filled his mouth and made everything taste bad, and he, truthfully, never tried to stop it when it became like that.

"I beg your pardon?" Enjolras inquired coldly.

"I have offended Monsieur?"

"Listen, Feuilly. I won't have that sort of talk. What's come over you?"

"Nothing." Feuilly shrugged carelessly. "But you're a hypocrite."

"I?" For a moment Enjolras looked as though he might be angry, and Feuilly wanted it, but he simply shook his head and said in a dismissive voice, "You're mad, or you're drunk."

"What kind of man do you think you are? What do you think you are?" Feuilly was twisting his handkerchief, now, but not with anxiety. He bent it and pulled it with all the thoughtfulness--at least in his hands--of a man with a chain link puzzle, trying to make four separate rings out a tangle of iron. The handkerchief was grey now, although he had a vague impression at times that it might have been blue at some point, and it was one of his father's. It did not make him feel any less angry to pull on it. On the contrary, it brought up the hate against Enjolras stronger than before. "Tell me, tell me. What kind of man do you imagine yourself to be? Are you a God? Are you a saviour? Tell me, Enjolras, are you a benevolent _father_? Are you to preserve Paris like a kind man adopting deformed children from the plank for foundlings at a Cathedral?"

"I am a man," Enjolras said. "I am no better than any other man. I am no different from any other man."

"Liar," Feuilly interjected, so viciously and suddenly and--childishly (for 'liar' is always a childish insult)--that Enjolras stared at him.

"Don't speak to me like Grantaire, Feuilly. I shan't listen to you any more than I would listen to him."

"Don't speak to me as though I were Grantaire. I shan't respect you any more than he does."

Combeferre shook his head behind them, and said softly, "Gentlemen--brothers. Please, enough of this. I know you're tired, Richard--" Combeferre was the only one who, as far as Feuilly was concerned, was pretentious enough to call them by their first names, as though he really thought they were brothers "--and, Luc, I know all you've seen to-day is suffering, and of course it makes you angry. But we can do something about it if we depend upon one another. We cannot fight among ourselves. There, now. It's all right. We'll talk," he said, addressing Enjolras. "We hadn't quite finished anyway when Luc came in. Come with me." He drew Enjolras aside by his sleeve, clearly offering Feuilly the chance to go back through of the door and leave them, which would, of course, be the proper thing to do, and an appropriate kind of unspoken apology, too.

For a moment, Feuilly was determined not to; but then he turned disgustedly and left, closing the door behind him with his handkerchief. Bahorel had just come into the café, looking as formidable and rough as always. He had dark wild eyes and a mad, untidy beard and hair, and his clothes were always rumpled, and not a few people crossed away from him on the street or avoided him in a crowd, but Feuilly loved him fiercely.

"Bonsoir!" he called quietly across the room, and Bahorel, noting him, came over.

"How might you be to-day, then?" Bahorel asked, pleasantly enough.

Feuilly sat wearily. "Decent."

"But you're not," said Bahorel, sprawling lazily beside him. He always did that. Even when he sat down, he looked either dangerous or stupid. He struck people as simple and quite probably cruel, being so big. It was something people did, Feuilly had realised long ago. They took men as they appeared. Bahorel could not look gentle, he did not speak gently; he got drunk sometimes and raged, and started brawls; but afterwards, when he was sober, he sat by himself with his arms folded, at a café or in a library, and, as the other patrons glanced at him nervously, he stared at the opposite wall pensively, seeming lost in thought. He was always repenting silently. He didn't forgive himself well. Feuilly knew it. Feuilly had always known it. But Bahorel could not give someone his apologies, he could not be a perfect gentleman. He could only be rough, wild Bahorel, the trouble-maker.

Feuilly knew that he loved music. Feuilly knew that he memorised songs and plays and long passages out of books, but he never recited them to anyone. Feuilly knew.

He knew Bahorel far better than Bahorel did, just as Bahorel knew him better than he did. They understood one another too well. That was what had made it so easy to come together when they were thrown in together. Bahorel knew what made him angry, why it made him angry. Bahorel took the handkerchief away from him with a soft, persistent tugging, and calmed him with nothing more than a word, even when he wanted to be angry.

He had never kissed Bahorel, because Bahorel would not let him. Feuilly knew it was because Bahorel still tried to pretend to himself that he didn't love Feuilly in return, because it comforted him to pretend that the only times he did something he knew he shouldn't was when he chose them for himself. Feuilly didn't mind. He knew, defiantly, that he had more respect for Bahorel than Courfeyrac had for any of the pathetic women he took to bed constantly.

"No, no, I suppose I'm not," he said in answer to Bahorel's statement, spoken plainly but entirely correct.

"Well, why not?"

Feuilly noticed that Bahorel was curling the handkerchief around his fingers absently. "I hate Enjolras."

"Oh! That. Well, I'll knock him down for you if you want, but it's your fault you're an Ami in the first place, so if you really mind, you'll have to do something about it yourself."

"No, don't knock him down. I dare say he deserves it for being a pretentious bastard, but it's no use. Sometimes I think I ought to leave. I can't stand any of them. But if I left, I'd be doing nothing for everyone else. For anybody. For Gregor or any of the men I was working with to-day. For her. You know."

"Right, right. I know. Look, I can't--"

"I know that." Feuilly lay a hand on Bahorel's sleeve. "I know that. But what in hell am I doing here? I can't imagine some days. I think of how much I hate him, how much she needs me. It stops making sense. I think, why do I do anything? This is a wretched way of living, being poor. I hate it. I hate being pitiable, I hate struggling, I hate worrying, I hate being afraid, I hate being laughed at, I hate knowing what everyone thinks of me. Sometimes I even hate hating him. Shall I just throw myself under somebody's fiacre and be done with it? Shall I?"

"Shut up. You're being melodramatic. You sound like Helena. You won't be throwing yourself anywhere."

"Voice of reason." Feuilly sighed and laughed at once.

"You're going to have supper. You've worked all day, haven't you? Supper."

"All right."

"If you'd so desire, we'll order and wrap it up and take it and eat with her, so that she's not alone at your place for as long."

"Perhaps that's better. Prouvaire's here."

"Oh, the petit poèt. Hmm, I suppose we will take it back, then. Come, let's get Louison to provide for us."

Feuilly smiled tiredly as Bahorel stood and barged into the kitchen to find the waitress. He had dropped the handkerchief on the floor, and Feuilly bent to pick it up.


	4. The Knight of the Sun

Chapter Three: The Knight of the Sun

* * *

Enjolras had always been a chemist's assistant. 

He had wanted to, expected to, known he would have a job from the beginning, from the day he came to Paris. His uncle was an apothecary who did experiments in the rooms upstairs and irritated the family, and felt obligated to enlighten and instruct his young nephew on the rare occasions he visited. It was something Enjolras at least knew fairly well. It seemed common sense to do something he understood enough to do correctly.

No, said Enjolras one night, drawing circles on his clean, crisp, unmarked essay paper. No, it would be better to learn a new trade, to have many talents. I should work in a book store where I might find every new book as it is published and remember it, buy it, learn from it. I should work in a beggars' hospital, to learn how to heal a man and to aid my people. I should take instruction from a lawyer and better learn to argue for my people, to help them.

But somehow he never did. He continued to work with a chemist, feeling peculiarly content among the bottles and jars, quite used to the smell and not minding it at all.

Every now and then, to his irritation, Combeferre would take his hands and frown, wince, shake his head, look sad. Enjolras had poisoned his hands. They were always cold and the fingers were stiff and scarred, even slightly discoloured. He tired easily when writing, and his handwriting was not always clear enough to read. Sometimes he had to ask Combeferre to write out his essays for him legibly once he'd drafted them on paper, although it insulted his pride to a great degree and he had coldly requested Combeferre never tell anyone about it. Combeferre never seemed to mind, but he still looked pointedly sad in that exasperating way he had and went to work, coming back with the finished writings later on and smiling at Enjolras' quiet approval.

There was, however, one thing Enjolras which drew perfectly, and that was a circle, or a spiral. He was fascinated by the concept of a circle, of something that went on and on around itself forever, without ending; and equally so by the spiral, which went on and on downwards until it was too small to see going round. They were something he could not stop thinking about. They both seemed like metaphors, and for a long time he had always wondered where they came from. Had some scholar made them up, invented them, at the beginning of time, or were they copied out of nature? Were they God's or Man's? Were they the earth's or the sky's?

Once he began to think about it, he couldn't leave it alone. He drew them on his papers, on the inside covers of his books, on his walls--it would cost him a fortune in whitewash if his landlord ever found out, but he had always been firmly of the opinion that when he left his lodgings it would be because he had been thrown out, and therefore his landlord would not be calling him back--he drew them on the letters he used to send home, and on the slips of paper he used to mark chemicals and poisons and antidotes at the chemist's shop.

There. It all came back to the chemist's, in the end. Everything he thought about at some point spiralled back there, where it was dark and peculiar and silent, and reminded him of his uncle, who had died some years ago. The smell made him remember his aunt, who was small, a grey-brown colour all over, and sadly quiet, who smelled of his uncle's chemicals and seemed ashamed of it. The inside of the shop was his uncle's house, and he was himself, not a little boy fumbling with bottles any longer, but a tall, slender man in a leather apron, with gold spectacles and his pockets full of pens and labels, with his hair carefully tied back to keep stray bits from getting into things and his hands hard as stone.

He thought of it shortly as Combeferre touched his arm and said gently,--

"I don't know what got into Luc."

"He's a disagreeable little madman, that's what," said Enjolras irritably, shaking him off. "He makes me think of a dog, vicious thing."

"Surely he isn't that bad." Combeferre smiled. "Come now, I know you're tired. You really ought to--do something. Take a short holiday. It's permissible to do such a thing. I'm sure Joly would advise it."

"Joly." Enjolras snorted.

"You ought. You ought sleep, and rest, and get away from everything for a while, and get out of that damned dark place." Combeferre took his hand again, touching the five fingers one by one, although Enjolras could hardly feel it. "Richard."

"No. Absolutely not. Do you know what it would mean?"

"It would mean you were better off!" Combeferre suddenly cried, snatching the hand close.

"It would be to back down! I shall not back down, Combeferre. We shall not discuss this. I have no desire to lose respect for you, as I have for the others one by one. Let me go, and leave me be. Go console Feuilly." He turned away.

"You don't even speak like a real person any more. What's come over you? You're like--you're cold."

"Yes, I prefer to be."

Combeferre left.

Enjolras slowly eased himself into a chair and pulled a loose piece of paper out of his pocket, and began drawing circles with a piece of chalk. Around and around, tracing the same lines. Around, around, around... Imagine. (Around, around) "A holiday". A unexpected visit to some family in the country, a brief time in which to rest. (Around) For his health. (Around) Joly would advise. Oh. Joly.

He respected Joly far more than he showed anyone. Joly had accomplished what he had not. Joly was a doctor, knew how to make the body whole again. Enjolras, with all his poisons and his fine speeches and his brave words, had to this point only mastered the art of injuring it. If he had his revolution, if all his plans succeeded, if the world changed under his hands, he would perhaps learn how to heal a sick man, but now all he knew well was how to kill one who was healthy.

He had often imagined that Joly could save his hands. He was too proud to ask, but he played in his head a fantasy where Joly took his fingers and slowly made each one able to feel again, and soft, and coloured, and skilful, until he had finer hands than any man in France.

But this was merely a fantasy, he told himself sternly. Joly was a foolish young man absorbed with himself rather than the people who needed him. He was not exceptionally skilled or, indeed, exceptional in any respect. He was simply someone who meant to assist with Enjolras' revolution when he had nothing better to do after classes. Not true, part of him insisted. You are as much a cynic as Grantaire, as vicious a dog as Feuilly. He (they) did not come to you if he (they) did not intend to be part of what you planned. Why do you despise all men so?

Because they are pretentious fools who either think they know everything or are willing to pretend they do. Because the world is divided between those who have everything and are proud of it, and themselves, and the display of laughing cruelty and gross, revolting splendour and waste they put on for their friends, the men they want to impress who are just like them; and those who have nothing, and are ashamed to live.

Which of these two categories, then, does Joly fall into? asked the part of himself.

Joly is-- Enjolras faltered. Joly is one of those who supposes he knows everything, he finished lamely. He is one of those pretentious fools, with his stick and his umbrella and his big coat, like a bourgeois, like a fat, prosperous English gentleman. He is one of those.

Then you must hate him?

Damnation!

Enjolras stood up from the table and clenched his hands to his sides. He had chalked circles all over the wooden tabletop, from the far end to the part closest him, big ones and tiny ones, ones with spirals inside them and ones with spirals outside and some which intersected with other ones. His hands were mottled with white dust. When she saw it, Mère Houcheloup would look at him reproachfully and say things about how it was never like this when Père Houcheloup was alive.

He closed his eyes. Perhaps a holiday was a prospect he should pursue. It did no good to go on like this if he hurt his mind doing it. He must be well in order to make things succeed. An ill man with brain-fever could not hold a revolution.

But he was restless. He couldn't sit in a country-house visiting some old relative he'd forgotten about, listening to bourgeois talk and playing the docile youth. He wouldn't be able to bear the questions and the people calling him "Richard", when Combeferre was quite bad enough. He would arrange his breadcrumbs from tea into circles and think of his people whom he ought to be feeding, and he would have to listen to every person he met exclaiming over how cold his hands were until his mind became sick with it. It would not take him away from the things that were making him tired; it would place him closer to them and make him more distressed than ever. It would be exactly the opposite of a rest. It would be a torture. No, that he could not do.

At the same time, he thought wearily, as Combeferre had said, he truly could not stay here now. He must protect himself. He was burning a candle at both ends, he was going to bed late and getting up early, he was forgetting to eat but spending every day exerting himself. He should kill himself, perhaps, if he went on.

What he needed was someone to help him. Someone to send him off appropriately. Someone to arrange things so that he might go somewhere--safe. Only for a few days. Perhaps a week at the longest. Otherwise--he would never accomplish anything. He would go mad. He would become a lunatic and people would give him one of those cruel, memorable names they gave to such people. "Le Craie-Cercle", "Mort-mains". They would.

Enjolras breathed deeply and walked steadily to the door, opened it and put his head out.

"Combeferre!" he called sharply.

"Richard?"

"Has Joly come?"

"A moment ago."

"I wish to speak to him."

The small fellow disentangled himself from a group of friends and came over, smiling. "Bonsoir, Enjolras. Cold night, so you'll pardon my scarf and coat, but I know I shall be in bed by to-morrow. How are you?"

Enjolras looked at him critically. He was short, thin, with smoothed-back hair and blue eyes, wrapped in an enormous black overcoat that looked as though it might crush him, and with a thick woollen scarf about his neck. It looked quite uncomfortable. As Enjolras had supposed, he was carrying his stick and his umbrella; and also was wearing tall boots and gloves. Briefly, Enjolras wondered how he managed in the summer. Besides being uncomfortable, it must be swelteringly hot.

"Not well," said Joly cheerfully.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Evidently you are not well, since you didn't see fit to answer my question. That is done by men who are hesitant to say exactly how wretched they feel and hesitant also to pretend they are well when they assuredly are not."

"On the contrary, I was merely thinking over what I was going to ask you. Come here." Enjolras led him to the chalked table. "Sit down. I wish to discuss something quite serious with you."

"Yes, of course. --What's been done to the table?" he asked, looking astonished.

"No matter. Listen, Joly."

"Yes, I am. What is it?"

Enjolras paused, began, stopped, and finally said, in a determined voice, "Yes. Joly, I wish you to send me away."

"What?" Joly leaned forward carefully in his bulky coat, evidently trying to understand exactly what Enjolras was asking. "You want me--?"

"To require me to leave Paris for a few days. I'm quite close to becoming ill, but I haven't the ability to force myself to change my habits without someone forcing me first. I shan't stop overworking myself unless you tell me to."

"Oh!" His expression cleared. "I understand. That's no trouble. I require, then, that you take a long week-end, at very least, in the country, with my second cousins' family. They already take boarders for a moderate price, and there's a lake, and very nice grounds."

"Must I be with people?"

"They're young. They have no children yet. Besides, Andre--the husband--owes me thirty francs from cards, and he'll be glad to rid himself of the debt."

"They'll ask me questions," said Enjolras, a touch plaintively.

"I'll ensure they do not. I'll tell them you are unwell and subject to nervous breakdowns, and need lots of rest and solitude. You need expect their presence only at breakfast and dinner."

"And I shall be alone the rest of them time?"

"Certainly."

"Thank heavens. Merci, Joly. I shall be in your debt."

Joly sat back, looking thoughtful. "It's no trouble, I'm sure."

"You must understand that I do not want anyone to know. Do not tell the Others, particularly not Combeferre, no matter how much he asks you."

"I shan't."

"Very well."

There was a pause. Then Joly stood, with difficulty, and made for the door. "Well, then, I'll go write to Andre. I hope the time away makes you well."

"Thank you."

For a long time after Joly left, Enjolras sat at the table, tracing the chalk circles and quietly, guiltily rejoicing that he was going to leave them soon. He had got a splinter in one of his cold, poisoned fingers, and he could not feel it.


	5. The Brave Geraint

_Chapter Four: The Brave Geraint_

* * *

Well. 

Curious.

Enjolras, in disarray. Enjolras, fallen to pieces. Enjolras, a touch cold, a good deal imploring, like a spoilt child who truly is unhappy for the first time; Enjolras, wanting to escape, wanting to be alone, wanting to be quiet, admitting to failure, admitting to faults, speaking of debts.

It was quite curious how in only a few words it would become apparent that he was human, and, at the same time, that he did not consider himself to be so.

There was no mistaking the tone, the demands--no, Enjolras thought he had conducted himself as he always did, or else he thought that Joly respected him to such an extent that there was no fear of having their conversation relayed, even between the Amis. I am like a private physician, thought Joly, with a slight smile. I am like the King's physician. "He is ill, but it must never go beyond this room". Like a state secret. No, Enjolras believed that Joly would never tell anyone, but he more than believed it, he _expected_ it. He took it for a fact.

Indeed, that was how it was. Joly shifted a little beneath his gigantic coat and smiled again, palely. He had no intention of telling anyone. He was going to write Andre a nice letter mentioning that one of his friends in Paris was ill and recovering from a nervous fever, that he needed lots of good food, of rest, of quiet, of seclusion, and if Andre wouldn't mind boarding him for a few weeks, he, Daniel, would be very glad to forget the debt of thirty francs Andre owed him from the last time he visited and was soundly beaten at cards. He would make it a smiling letter, a laughing letter, with a little touch of seriousness to it, so that Andre understood it was important. It would be an excellent letter, and then Enjolras would vanish for some time, and the others would conjecture as to his whereabouts, and Joly would privately smile. Then Enjolras would return, with his own explanations and excuses, and things would resume exactly as they had been before the departure.

And yet-- "I shall be in your debt," said Joly, aloud to himself. He was sitting with Combeferre and Bossuet as they read schoolbooks and marked down things for essays, but he was neglecting his work. They glanced up at him briefly, laughed, went back to their papers. 'I shall be in your debt'.

He had always rather wondered what it was like to do a favour for a King. His mother told him bedtime stories of Gods and Goddesses when his father wasn't listening, and told him of how they were powerful rulers who commanded the world and interfered with it, but a clever mortal might take something of theirs or do them a service, and then--then there were rewards, or trades, or benefits, knowledge gained, or secrets, or, if things were foolishly or badly managed, punishments and curses. He remembered her writing him into those stories when he grew old enough to want to be the clever boy who made his fortune through aiding Aphrodite or stealing Hermes' winged sandals.

He had rendered a service, now, but was there to be a reward? No, Enjolras was not a God, not a well-intentioned Aries nor an Apollo concerned with war. He was assuredly not Zeus. Perhaps he was most like Athena, but in a way he couldn't be as awe-inspiring as Joly had always known she must be. Enjolras was not a God.

Still, he was more than a man.

So Joly made him a King, made him a ruler, made him important without his being too important. And this was proper.

Did the King give a reward for a secret well-kept, for a deed well-done? For a man who helped him escape from his castle and go into hiding in a time of war? Or, because he was a King, did he know he need not do anything, really, for no one would object?

Joly shook himself. Although he was quite afraid of catching cold, because it always took him a very long time to get well again and was uncomfortable and gave him a cough that would stay for months, his coat _was _heavy. He was a very small man, unnaturally thin and rather short, and the damned thing weighed on his shoulders.

"L'aigle," he said suddenly, prodding his companion gently.

"Mmm?"

"What do you honestly think of the temperature? Honestly?"

"Honestly? I think, ma belle, that it is a cool evening, but I do believe that if you were to remove your overcoat, I should be able to put my jacket about your shoulders, and that would prevent any chill." Bossuet met his eyes as he spoke, and said it all perfectly seriously. "That it what I honestly think."

"Merci." That was what Joly had always found marvellous about Bossuet. He would not laugh as the Others did. Perhaps he was as sceptical and amused as any of them, but he wouldn't _show_ it. He just answered the question, or helped Joly forget about whatever miserable situation they were in (once, a year ago, they had endured a horrible night in the snow when they forgot to engage lodgings on their return from their families' houses for Christmas, and had nowhere to spend the night, and spent hours knocking on the doors of lodging-houses, only to be turned down because they only meant to stay a single night or to find everyone sleeping and unwilling to answer the door; on that night, Bossuet had smiled, produced a bottle of brandy from his carpet-bag, made them a temporary shelter on the front step of their favourite café, and made Joly laugh all night long, quite forgetting that the next day he would be unable to move from bed). He seemed to mean things. Joly thought it wonderful. Musichetta could not entirely tolerate him, and at times she refused to speak to him, but Bossuet always understood that he was afraid of sickness.

He unbuttoned the giant black greatcoat and folded it, making himself some several sizes smaller, and much lighter, and remarkably cooler. Bossuet laughed and took off his jacket, draping it over Joly, who pulled it close. He had taken off the scarf, as well, and noticed that the persistent itching on the back of his neck was gone.

"Well, Joly," said Bossuet, stretching. "What did Enjolras have to say to you, that he drew you away from us into private audience?"

"Just a question," Joly returned without a pause.

"He questioned you! What did he want to know? I'm intrigued."

"A pressing question regarding my schedule."

"Your schedule!"

"Yes, he wished to know if I was free to tack some inflammatory pamphlets to the doors of unsuspecting persons on Thursday, or whether I had an exam in my History class that day."

Bossuet burst out laughing, feelingly, stretching his fingers and wrists like a cat splaying its toes. "Aha! A good answer."

"It was, wasn't it?" Joly smiled to himself, and shivered. "You are certain that I'll be warm enough, aren't you?"

"My beautiful one, I am. I will bet a good bottle of wine on it, or, if you prefer, two cheeses, small-sized, or a good pair of pince-nez spectacles, a well-written essay on social conditions, a volume of lavishly illustrated and gloomy poetry, or a glass butter dish with salt and pepper cellars, depending entirely on your preferences. If to-morrow you are ill, I will gladly forfeit the item of your choice."

"I'd take the cheese, Daniel," said Combeferre, looking up for a moment.

"Are the tableware new?" Joly asked.

"Antiques from my great-great-aunt. A gift to my mother for her wedding, passed to me because she was hoping they'd get broken." Bossuet smiled apologetically and spread his big hands wide.

Joly looked at his own hands and sighed lightly. Bossuet had always called him 'belle', ever since they had met three years ago in a doctor's establishment. Bossuet had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken his arm and bloodied his face, and Joly had wanted to consult the doctor because he had a funny swelling in patches on his knees, which turned out to be because he had burnt himself a little when he used very hot water to wash himself after a mongrel dog leapt up on him. They stood in the anteroom together, having come in at the same time, and Bossuet laughed and joked about his accident while insisting that Joly was too beautiful to have anything wrong with him. Beautiful. He did not say handsome, which Joly had always noticed. He was beautiful. He was like a sister to Bossuet, but a sister who was--not. Half a sister. To some extend it confused him, but partly pleased him, and he had never dissuaded Bossuet.

Bossuet believed him. None of the Others ever had. They laughed uproariously at his worries and his illnesses, and though it wasn't quite cruel laughter, it wasn't quite good humour. It frightened Joly. If something turned out to be more serious than he had thought, if he complained about a slight dizziness and they dismissed it with amusement, how would they believe him if it were to develop into something quite bad? If he were to faint, to be unable to rise? Would they continue laughing? It rose a panic in his throat. He might die and they would not realise it until almost the moment of his death, because he so frequently had inconsequential sicknesses. But Bossuet would not allow that to happen to him.

There were, he had come to realise, only a few good men in the Others. There was Bossuet, who did not actually count as one of Them, and there was Combeferre, who was quite gentle with everyone, and perhaps Enjolras could be included as well, for he was a fair King, if cold. But Feuilly despised everyone; Bahorel was big and rough-cut and awkward, a hot-headed fool who never let anyone be; Prouvaire was melodramatic, flourishing, begged for attention, and attacked the Others in an underhanded way, by looking close to tears when they were short with him, which affected almost everyone but Feuilly and Grantaire; Courfeyrac was a princely fop who laughed loudest at Joly and made light of everything of any importance; but Grantaire--Grantaire was the worst.

Grantaire was angry and revolting, always smelling of wine and brandy and vomit and filth, always shouting crude slurred words at everything and making himself embarrassing to the point Joly felt sick being in the same room with him. What was worse, however, was that Bossuet pretended to like him. He smiled, that innocent, incongruous smile, shrugged, said, "Well, every man needs a companion", and with a bottle or two of something or other went to sit in the corner with Grantaire, drinking and pondering the length which a famous whore's ankle protruded beneath her skirt, or the money needed to buy all the wine in France, taking into consideration different prices for every sort and every maker. Bossuet said that Grantaire longed to be talked to seriously by someone. Joly remembered that upon hearing this for the first time, he had said something cruel and sharp about Grantaire's talking seriously with his absinthe faeries, in that case, and locking himself in his room.

But he had come out shyly by the end of the day, and Bossuet had readily forgiven him, insisting that it was all right, but Grantaire really could not be expected to spend every day alone, for-ever, with everyone acutely disgusted by him. It was not a fair kind of life for a man, and if Grantaire could never have an occupation, a family, or friends, he might at least have a drinking partner who didn't hate him.

After that, Joly did not say anything about Grantaire, but that did not stop him from hating him, and feeling distinctly and disconcerting jealous when Bossuet spent the evening in his company instead of Joly's.

At any rate, Joly had come to the conclusion that the Others were mainly intolerable, and he would have stopped coming to Musain in a moment were it not that Bossuet liked to stay there and talk with Them, and that he did honestly believe that Enjolras could do some good with his ideas. Bossuet smiled sometimes at the talk of revolution and reformation, but Joly felt his face flush and his lips part absently as he watched, intently, Enjolras making speeches or proclaiming ideas or giving Them tracts which he had written. Yes, Enjolras was a King, a dramatic ruler, a King concerned with his people and ready to help them. It entranced Joly.

And yet-- And yet--

Not enough that he couldn't help thinking, even now--he had seen the King with his guard down. He had seen the King afflicted and begging for solitude. He--the King was in _his_ debt. That was where he ceased to think of Enjolras reverently. What did it mean to be in the debt of a King? Was there something to be gained? Was there a favour he had earned?

Tiny, shrunken Joly, who dieted severely because he understood it to preserve life, who had vivid blue eyes of a remarkable sensibility that one often did not see because he hid his face with scarves or hats to keep the sun away or tinted spectacles to protect himself from viruses which might enter through the eyes, who had the best of intentions if only he could sort them out from his own slightly self-important worries, was not an exceptionally clever man, but he was intelligent. He was not particularly amazing, but he devoted himself earnestly to the people he decided he cared for. He could not captivate anyone with his speech, but the people who considered him a friend knew he was a good one. He was a plain man, a good one. He had never before had a secret which might earn him something, and he did not know what to do with it.

"So, ma belle, wither did'st thou wander to-day? I heard tell on the staircases that you were in the wrong class."

Joly laughed. "I went up into the wrong lecture-room, yes. I missed my Histories course but heard an exciting treatise on Theology."

"Indeed? Well, I expect Theology is easier to make sensational than History, since it causes more disputes and brawls."

"That's debatable," said Combeferre, his voice quite amused.

"I bet you the same objects I offered Daniel a moment ago that there have been more fights over Theology than History."

"I'll take the cheeses."

"You would do much better to take the pince-nez, Combeferre," Joly advised, buttoning Bossuet's jacket up the front unconsciously and mistaking several tears for button-holes as he did so. "L'aigle always has the best in that line. He gets them as heirlooms, and the pawnshops will pay rather handsomely for them."

"But I don't want the pince-nez; I want the cheese." Combeferre laughed.

"Quite fair," said Bossuet. "Quite fair."

"He hasn't warned you yet that it will be aged cheese."

"That improves the flavour, beautiful one." Bossuet smiled at Joly, shifted comfortably in his chair, and picked up his pen. "After we've finished this, shall we all three go out for supper and a drink together?"

"Is it warm enough to sit in an outdoor café? Indoors, the smoke chokes me."

"It is warm enough. Combeferre will lend you his jacket, too, and if worst comes to worse you can give them both back and put on your overcoat again."

Joly turned his head a little to one side, realised that this was Bossuet's usual good advice, and that he would enjoy going out to supper to no small degree. He decided, absently, that he would leave the secret for a while. There was no need for it at the moment. He took his own pen and opened his Medical textbook again, and Bossuet yawned and stretched like a tiger, making a bet with Combeferre on the best restaurant close by.


	6. Il Dolce Far Niente

_Chapter Five: Il Dolce Far Niente_

* * *

He watched Joly put his head on one side and then begin his work, and felt an unexpected, if unsurprising, warm feeling of love. 

They were two things which were always with one another, he and Joly. He was the eagle and Joly was the beautiful one, but they were rarely seen not in one another's company, except at school, where the fellows would pretend to be surprised in that annoying, exaggerated way people have of looking astonished and crying out,—

"Ye Gods! It's Bossuet (L'aigle) (Lesgles) without his Joly (his beautiful one)!"

But it was rather strange to him that they did so. He had always been his own. He had not even met Joly until just three years ago, and the other twenty-one years of his life had been his own. Joly didn't really know anything about him, though he knew all about Joly—Joly didn't know, for example, about his house or his family or his thinking. Joly didn't know where he had played when he was a little boy or what promises he'd made girls when he was growing up or how many dogs his Aunt Helene had and that he knew all their names by looking at their ears; Joly didn't know how many sisters he really had because he always made their number impossibly large when he talked of them, to make Joly laugh; Joly didn't know the special painful memory of every bone he'd ever broken, despite knowing the number, because Bossuet only mentioned them when he was telling stories about his clumsiness, and he only said just the right things to make Joly smile and shake his head and say, with his voice filled with fondness,—

"Ah, L'aigle—"

(And Bossuet never said anything about himself unless it was to make his friends laugh, never let anybody know the story of his name or the circumstances of the little crescent scar over his eye unless the details were embellished and spun out and kneaded like sweet bread dough, so nobody really knew the truth about anything that had happened to him, because he never related history, he only always told stories)

Sometimes he considered leaving Joly just for a few days, because he was his own and he wanted to go out somewhere where he wasn't known and stand on a street corner by himself, as himself, watching with his own eyes and making his own sarcastic comments to himself. Then he remembered that his comments would be wasted if he was the only one to hear them, and he could see better with another pair of eyes to help him, and he needed someone else to be there to pay the carriage fare home after he lost his money in the gutter or it was stolen from his pocket.

_"L'aigle," said Joly suddenly, looking up from his work. "Did you decide with Combeferre where we are going to eat to-night?"_

_"Alas, no, beautiful one. We were undecided. The foolish fellow demanded that we go to the same old place we always go, and I suggested we go somewhere new. Somewhere we've never been before. Well, isn't change a clever, interesting thing? I cannot fathom what makes a poor man decide he'd best go the same place every evening." He cast a mock reproachful look at Combeferre, who smiled sweetly._

_"Ah, well, you know, familiarity can be a blessing, mes amis. At least we know our usual place has decent prices."_

_"Prices! Is that what you concern yourself with?" They had already had this entire argument, but Joly had missed it the first time, and Bossuet recognised that they must perform it again so he could see, or else it would be worth nothing. He played his part gladly. "Materialistic, very materialistic."_

_"A crime, yes," Joly agreed, watching eagerly, his eyes delighted. He was joining in the pageant a little, but he was clearly pleased with it._

Bossuet wasn't good on his own. There was something which was not there when he was alone, and that something was—it was an _audience_. He was no good without someone to laugh at him, after all. He needed someone to appreciate the stupid things he said about pretty girls, or help him up, grinning, after he tripped over a lump of ice in the street.

So he stayed with Joly, because Joly had money and a home and a laugh, and because Joly liked being his audience. Joly liked his job of being there, even if it consisted only of smiling and shaking his head and saying,—

"Ah, L'aigle."

(And sometimes he thought Joly must be much, much older than he was, when he saw him standing there, dressed up in that stupid greatcoat, watching the world with those blue eyes, his face set pensively and quietly—when he saw him smile and shake his head like a half-sad, half-amused older brother not sure whether it would be all right to laugh at his brother's folly. Then sometimes Bossuet thought Joly was much, much younger, and he wanted to tousle his hair gently like an older brother playing with his sweet little sister. Once in a long while, Joly would be an old man, his grandfather, and once in a long while, Joly would be his wife, because the equality was so strong and Joly's eyes so soft and his smile so perfect and accommodating and he was always, always, ready to laugh, and Bossuet needed the laughter to be someone)

He had not always needed the laughter.

His family had never thought he was funny, after all. They were a strained, strange family, always a bit short on money but always with enough when something was really necessary (like the education of their eldest son, whose real name nobody remembered). His mother thought his breaking things was horrible; she lost three heirloom plates to him and every time descended into fierce screamings and tears. He knew she did not hate him, but she hated losing anything. His father thought his clever comments were foolish; he was supposed to quote the Bible and know all the Almanac sayings farmers knew about the weather and the skies. Bossuet knew he was not _really _disappointed in him, but sometimes his father couldn't help seeming it on the spur of the moment. He had six little sisters and a little brother, with queer bright eyes and tight little pink mouths, and though he performed all his home-made magic tricks for them and pulled faces and used all his geniality and talent, he could never get them to smile.

He was very used to this when he first left home, and he never quite understood why he went on trying to entertain people when he came to Paris. In Paris, though, they laughed at him. At first, he had thought they were being cruel when they laughed and mocked him, but he quickly learnt that if he laughed too—if he tripped and sprawled and argued futilely but _on purpose_, people would not call him a fool—they would call him a fine fellow, and enjoy his company.

_"Gentlemen, I have a way to settle it. I fear we can never regain our lost chance to see that Theology lecture of Daniel's, so you'll never get a chance that way to win your cheeses," Bossuet said, turning to address Combeferre. "However, we'll go to a new restaurant this evening. If it's a decent place, I keep the cheese. If it's expensive, the help is poor, the food inedible, the décor renders eating impossible, or the chairs and tables wiggle and have a tendency to tip over, why, then, the cheese goes to you without another word. Is that fair?"_

_"What, all those things? That's too many conditions!" said Joly, laughing._

_"Of course not. I don't set impossible tasks. One of those things is all that's needed. Do you accept?"_

_Combeferre was laughing as well, and his fine, fair, open face looked wonderfully content and amused. He was the picture of a man among friends, satisfied. "Yes, the conditions seem fair. Done. But, you know, we've still got to decide on a place to eat."_

_"A pity you continue to argue over such petty details." Bossuet shook his head sombrely and looked past Combeferre's ear. "Ma belle here will decide, for he's the one impartial judge. I might pick a place I secretly know to be good. You might choose an establishment which you know has a reputation for squalid atmosphere. No, it's Daniel's choice."_

_"All right," said Joly. "I'll think while I work. We can't go until we're done."_

_Combeferre nodded, smiling sagely, and returned to his papers._

So he became an artist, the best artist, a performing artist so good that people didn't realise he was acting. He could do amazing acrobatics, and his script was dexterously written by an author with a wonderful sense of humour, and his bad luck was carefully arranged by half a dozen little directions ahead of time.

His real name nobody remembered, but they remembered him, and they loved him, and he had never had friends before. It was a strange thing to have friends who did not forget him.

He frequented pawn shops on the rare occasion he was alone, and collected numerous useless things for making bets with—that was his speciality, and nobody had ever failed to like it. He owned only old, torn clothes, which he professed his love for; he hadn't bought himself a hat that fit in years, because it was more amusing to see a too-small cap scrunched down on his bald head; and he never had any money on him. Any money he did have all went into the preparations, anyway.

His sleight-of-hand got better and better, and he could trip himself up over something that wasn't there. Falling down stairs was the one thing he always had trouble with, because a sensible part of him was always afraid of how much it hurt, tumbling; but he could make it work, and there was never more than a second's hesitation before he fell.

Once he considered explaining all this to Joly, but it wasn't really any use. He didn't want Joly to know. Joly liked his L'aigle quite all right, and there was no telling what he might think of Bossuet-who-did-not-joke-or-stumble, a tall, gawky, stupid, nervous fellow named Patrice Lesgles.

He did, however, trust only Joly of all the people he knew. He thought perhaps it was from living with him for three years, though he had lived with his sisters and brother for at least ten years each, and didn't trust them at all. He didn't particularly trust even the other Amis—especially the other Amis, he thought, smiling as he stretched again and Joly looked over. He had met Joly in that wretched little doctor's place after he had broken his arm for Courfeyrac, having only just struck up an acquaintance with _him_. Joly smiled and chattered, excited and amused and very convinced about his serious condition but quite able to spare attention over Bossuet's hurt. The attention was very flattering, and Bossuet grew quickly to this sympathetic fellow.

So they became friends.

It was not like this with the other Amis. Bossuet fell in with them because of Courfeyrac, and for a while amused them very thoroughly, but he was never very close to any of them. He never knew any of their secrets. Just Joly's.

He didn't even really like them—of course, nobody did, he thought, laughing to himself. None of the Amis liked one another, really. They gave each other veiled glances and said secretly sarcastic things and that, he thought, must be obvious to anyone. No—he didn't like them. They had been a decent audience for a while, and then they changed. They grew less ready at making good-humoured pretences, and got fed up with him instead of amused.

Enjolras, more than anyone else, loathed him for a distraction. Bossuet occasionally had wished he weren't, just to avoid that unpleasant dark gaze becoming fixed disapprovingly on him, but he had done his artistry for so long and was so good at it that it was second nature, and much of the time more than second nature, and he couldn't—wouldn't—stop it for anyone, particularly not Enjolras.

Courfeyrac, of course, was one of those fellows who got easily bored with things. He wasn't surprised or bothered by the fact that Courfeyrac had long since stopped being entertained, and he felt much the same way about Bahorel. Bahorel, being a clumsy, aggressive fellow, was not really a good audience or companion for anyone, and he was only surprised that Feuilly had stood by him for so long. —And, as for Feuilly, he hated everybody equally and Bossuet could not be hurt by that, either.

As for the rest of them, Jean Prouvaire was a silly boy, and Combeferre was a strange man. Bossuet pitied the former in an agreeable way and while he didn't like him, didn't have anything against him; but Combeferre, on the other hand, made him nervous. He couldn't explain it, but he hated to be around the fellow. There was a strange air of self-love about him, a strange rottenness in his complacency and kindness to everyone, and it was quite distasteful. No, he certainly did not like Combeferre.

So there was only his dear beautiful one, his Joly, and there was Grantaire.

Bossuet was almost fond of Grantaire. He had never admitted it to Joly, because, poor fellow, he got jealous; but he really enjoyed Grantaire's company quite a lot. Perhaps it was the meaningless talk. He liked meaningless talk. It didn't require anything, and Grantaire tolerated him even when he was in a serious frame of mind. For such a thing did happen from time to time; a serious frame of mind, that was. There would be days when nothing in the world could make him his usual self, but Grantaire would always be too drunk to notice or care, and he could pity himself and make melodramatic speeches and drink wine, and all Grantaire would require of him was that he paid for the wine.

Then, too, Grantaire did need the company. Joly didn't entirely understand this, but it was most true. Grantaire was an alone man, someone who truly had nothing, and Bossuet remembered his times of solitude at home before he left, with his brother and sisters and their bright eyes, and he wanted—and the feeling was peculiar and didn't feel entirely right on him—to take care of Grantaire in that respect. Every man needs some kind of talk, he thought. One can't go through life entirely alone and entirely unheard and entirely unseen, with no audience at all. So he always made time for Grantaire.

Bossuet looked over at him now. There he was. He had come into the café and sat down at his usual corner table sometime during the evening and was drinking ponderously, not yet drunk enough to be loud but not sober enough to be angry. His eyes were fixed on a point above the door and he drank rather slowly. Bossuet smiled towards him gently.

Then, suddenly, he was called back by Joly, who coughed and tugged his threadbare sleeve.

"L'aigle," he said.

"Yes, my beautiful one?"

"Are you finished? Combeferre and I are finished."

"Then you've found a place for us to eat?" Bossuet raised his eyebrows up his bare forehead comically and inquisitively.

In response, Joly showed him a tiny guilty smile, like that of a child who knows he oughtn't be laughing at whatever it is that's amused him. It was rather fetching, Bossuet thought fondly. "I have. You know that they've opened a new bistro in the Latin Quarter called L'Auberge du Marin. You've not been, have you?"

"In a word, ma belle, no."

"Wonderful! But have you finished? You eluded the question."

"Ah, not yet. I've been neglecting my work. I've been surveying the landscape and daydreaming when I ought to be putting myself to it."

Joly's lips twitched fetchingly about the corners in the beginnings of a new, and bigger, smile. "Well, we'll wait only another half hour for you, and if you're not done by then, we'll leave without you."

"In that case, I'll be diligent. Hand me a pen; thank you. There!" He stretched his wrists and bent forward. "To work. After all, we ought to find out some time to-night whether Combeferre's earned his cheeses."

"Indeed," said Combeferre laughingly. "I'm quite eager to know."

"Well, then," Bossuet replied, and he cast one last look at Grantaire, pouring another glass, before he began to write.


	7. Autumn Leaves

_Chapter Six: Autumn Leaves_

* * *

Eagle had looked at him. He bent his head, glanced at the other side of the room, glanced at his glass, at the window, and back again. Now Eagle was speaking with that horrid little Joly fellow, the scrawny fellow in the greatcoat, the one who was so impossibly thin and small and wretched. Joly. Eagle loved him. Eagle had said so, once. 

Grantaire—Jeremie, he reminded himself—hated that wretched little fellow. Joly was always with Eagle, every possible moment of the day, as far as he could see, and always s_miling _at him in that wretched ingratiating manner, always calling him L'aigle and getting called belle in return.

In the back of his mind, he was sure belle wasn't the right word. The pretty seamstresses who lived up and down the streets of the grey parts of Paris and scraped together a living by making their fingers bleed with pinpricks and rough cloth and hard work were called belle, but Joly ought to be jolie.

He laughed tiredly to himself and pushed his glass around on the table. Eagle hadn't come to talk to him to-day. Of course, it was quite stupid of Eagle to waste his own wasted time by getting in the way and expecting answers to drunken questions when he—Jeremie, he reminded himself again—only wanted to drink his wine. Still, it was—well, to get a companion—at any rate, he'd gotten to used to it. He didn't like it when Eagle forgot about him and went off somewhere with Joly. And they were going somewhere, too. They were taking that fool fellow Combeferre with them, too, if he had overheard them right. They were all three of them going off to some fine café together, and he, Jeremie, would be forgotten in his corner with his wine and brandy.

He hated Combeferre, too, because Combeferre patronised. Combeferre came about once a week to ease his conscience and asked after him, Jeremie, to do his duty towards the poor drunk worthless fellow in the corner. When Eagle came to his corner, Eagle had something to _say_. It often wasn't important, and it often didn't make any sense, but it wasn't what Combeferre said, so it was fine.

Eagle asked how was the wine to-day? Eagle asked had he been drunk all day long, or had he only just started? Eagle asked where was the best place to eat this week? Eagle asked what he recommended for hangovers. Eagle wanted to know what he thought of that pretty (ugly) serving-girl (grisette) over there, or wanted to groan over That Fine One's talking too loudly and too passionately.

Jeremie liked to call Enjolras That Fine One. He didn't like given names much, because they were always all wrong, so he made sure only to call people he disliked by their right names. Lesgles, then, was Eagle, and Enjolras was That Fine One, and the one waitress (was her right name Jeannette? he wondered) who always remembered to call him Jeremie was Bouche de Sourires, or Sourire for short.

He liked her. He frowned and nodded slowly to himself. She had short grey-streaked dirty-brown hair, and eyes like the sky on a grey, wet day, and she smiled sadly at him when he came in and called him Jeremie. He had kissed her once or twice, but he didn't like to, because it made her smiles even sadder than ever, and she was like his mother. His mother had eyes like that. She didn't say his name like his mother, though, because her voice was rough and quiet, strained and a little garbled, as though she were for-ever afflicted with drunkenness and a sore throat both at once. He liked that voice.

She wasn't beautiful like That Fine One, of course. He was truly fine, he was magnificent. He looked like something fresh and different from all the dark, grey, deformed stuff that always seemed to be surrounding Jeremie. There were only ugly things around him, himself and the café and the bad wine and wretched Joly and bloody Combeferre and starving people in the streets and orphan children who watched him when he staggered from place to place and hideous whores who curled their painted lips at him and tossed their mock-proud, made-up faces. That Fine One, that Enjolras, was soft and golden, moving through the dark, grey stuff slowly and bringing with him a queer little haze of light. He wore spectacles like Combeferre and his hands would often clench and unclench without his seeming to see it at all. He had a habit of moving them twitchingly on the table as he spoke. When he was pleased, his face didn't change, but Jeremie was able to tell anyway and knew that he would turn his hands a certain way, too. But he didn't do that often.

Drunk now, he, Jeremie, suggested to himself, leaning heavily on the table and picking up his glass. He didn't drink to forget anything, which was funny, because people always thought you did. He just drank. There wasn't anything to forget, after all. His mother had grey-sky eyes, but she was a plain woman who kissed him often and made sure her little boy was happy, and his father was a laughing, good-natured fellow who tried to teach his son without much luck and finally sent him to school in hopes of getting rid of him—no, his family had been fine. He'd got no brothers and sisters, got no tragic sweethearts. There was nothing behind him to be sorry for, except for drinking—and he wasn't sorry for that, he thought fiercely. He, Jeremie, drank because he liked it, because he liked the taste and the feeling and didn't mind the fool he made of himself or the mad things he said.

He wasn't drunk enough now, though, because he often got cheerful when he was properly drunk. He was a maudlin fool now, he thought, and began to laugh to himself low in his throat. He didn't like it at all. He didn't like roaring obscene things and tripping over his own feet (Eagle did that, too, but he couldn't help it, it was natural). And when he was sober, he was angry.

He was angry. He hated people. He hated their faces and the way they looked and they way they looked at him. He knew what he looked like. He was shabby and ugly and grey, like Sourire's eyes, like his mother's eyes, like the haziness that That Fine One cut through like a sun in the fog. When he was sober, he wasn't the same fellow, but he didn't change to everyone else. They always saw the same person. Perhaps they were entitled to. He didn't look for two people in each of them. There was only one Eagle he saw, only one Sourire, only one wretched Joly. So there was only one Grantaire—not Jeremie, he reminded himself. He was Grantaire to the People, not Jeremie, not his mother's little boy, not anyone's boy, just a man, an ordinary, rambling man. He wasn't too tall or too short, he wasn't scrawny like Joly or well-built like Bahorel, he had only a pale face with a dark beard, a bent back with a weaving way of walking that made him rather amusing to watch. So the People only saw that one same person all the time, just as he looked at them. That one same person was alternately fierce at no one and congenial to everyone. That one same person laughed drunkenly at a joke, whether it was Joly's or Eagle's or his own, and that one same person bitterly ranted about everything that was wrong, in Paris, in France, in the world, in the face of the fellow nearest him. That was Grantaire.

Jeremie was the boy in between, half-drunk and half-sober, wistful and hopeful and close to smiling but only in an unfocused, slurred way. And people didn't see Jeremie.

Well, perhaps Eagle did, he amended. Eagle sat with him whether he was Grantaire or Jeremie, and Eagle talked. Eagle had some kind of secret, but he only heard it when he was mostly drunk and he hadn't managed to remember it when he was sober yet, so he hadn't yet figured it out. It was some kind of secret that Eagle didn't want people to know, but like most men, his tongue loosened when he was drunk.

His, Jeremie's, didn't. He lied when he was drunk. He told stories about his father hating him or professed his love for girls who normally made him feel fierce and hard and bitter inside, made him angry. Jeremie didn't notice girls much unless they reminded him of something, like his mother or Sourire or Paris skies, but Grantaire hated or loved them, Grantaire loathed or lusted for them.

He didn't understand yet whether it was Grantaire or Jeremie who Eagle thought was his friend. Eagle liked everybody, of course, but he wasn't sure whether Eagle knew Jeremie. Because even when he was half-drunk, he remembered not to tell his secrets, he had never really been Jeremie for anyone, not for Eagle, not for Courfeyrac, not for any of his drinking partners or his enemies among the People. Only Sourire knew Jeremie.

He thought sometimes he would like to be Jeremie for That Fine One, to show him what he was like when he was not crudely deriding That Fine One's speeches and bellowing with drunken laughter at his castles in the sky. That Fine One might not hate Jeremie, for Jeremie was often an inoffensive boy—quite muddled, and he wouldn't deny it, and certainly always drunk, but never hateful or scornful, never very horrible. Jeremie was his mother's little boy, as much that as Grantaire wasn't. Perhaps That Fine One would think Jeremie was not so vile that he must be hated, the way Grantaire was.

He shook his head, and it made him dizzy. That Fine One was arrogant as the people he made speeches against, and he would not be friends ever with either Grantaire or Jeremie. It was simply the truth. It did not concern him. He had drunk a great deal more by now, and Grantaire was beginning to surface, slowly but surely, and he was beginning to feel amused by the very thought of That Fine One. Enjolras was just another pretty boy, another fool with mad dreams that were without foundation and would come to nothing.

He glanced around. The room was filling up. Besides Eagle and Joly and Combeferre working at their table, there was Feuilly, sitting alone and no doubt waiting for Bahorel, and Prouvaire asleep in his corner, and Enjolras would be in the other room ruminating on some impassioned speech or other. Courfeyrac was the only one absent, and he had promised everybody the night before that he would be. Something to do, he said. Someone to screw, he meant. That was Courfeyrac for you.

Oh, he loathed them, every single one of them. He couldn't leave them, so he hated them. Enjolras kept him there, kept him there, because he was like a God and like the sun and God _damn_ him but he needed that sun, God, he didand the other People just circled around him laughing at him. Prouvaire winced away from him and nanced about with his poetry, and Feuilly curled his lip just like a high-minded whore showing his disgust for someone who was even lower than he was. Combeferre patronised and Joly cringed, Joly sulked, Joly watched Eagle like a jealous wife, like the wretched little prick he was. He hated Joly more than he had words. Bahorel was a big clumsy oaf, and Courfeyrac was fine, handsome, clever; Courfeyrac was everything he wasn't, and everyone loved Courfeyrac. There was only Eagle, he could only stand Eagle when Eagle was drunk and didn't mind sitting with him and talking about nothing over wine and absinthe. Some days he thought even Eagle was revolting and he hated him, hated him.

Oh, hell, what was he talking about? He hated them all. He hated them all.

He was staring into his glass, viciously, bitterly, drinking without thinking, which was odd because he liked the taste and usually he always tasted his wine—

"Grantaire, ami."

He looked up sharply. "Oh! It's you, bald Eagle."

"Yes, it's me. I just thought I ought to tell you that I'm going to be out and about with Joly and our fine 'Ferre to-night, and I won't have the time to take our usual bottle together, so I'd hoped you'd accept my apology ahead of time. Of course to-morrow you'll be here and I shall have no engagements, and then we can have our usual talk." Eagle grinned apologetically and shrugged his broad shoulders.

He, Grantaire, nodeed. "Yes, whatever you say, my hairless one. Be sure to wear your hat, or you'll risk embarrassing your companiots."

"I'll be sure to. Drink one of those bottles in my name. Goodnight."

And Eagle left, smiling and laughing and tripping and being caught by Combeferre and Joly and friendly remarks and chuckles. He, Grantaire, stared after him.

"Funny to get left behind," said a musing voice at his side. He started. Why were all these people talking to him, damn them? He didn't want to talk. He wanted to drink.

"What?"

"I like to be alone, of course. I enjoy it. But you're not that sort, I don't think. It must be rather bothersome to have them all walking off and knowing that you belong with them, standing straight, perhaps a little drunk because friends often are together, but standing straight, and among friends. Not that I'd know myself, mind, because I don't, I truly don't. I like to be alone, or with Feuilly, and I'm perfectly content. But you—"

He twisted himself about to see Bahorel, standing there beside him. Bahorel. Tall and rough Bahorel. The fellow had astonishing blue eyes, and a figure like a blacksmith's—he brawled and stirred up fights and seemed to breed destruction. What the devil was he doing, talking in that voice, in that manner, like Combeferre but more sensible, less condescending, quite natural. He was like an ordinary man. Not one of the People. Not like anybody else. He was acting like an ordinary man, and he, Grantaire, was astonished, and he didn't like it.

"Can't think what y'mean," he muttered, slurring his words and not noticing it.

"Bossuet's your friend, isn't he?" Bahorel shrugged. "But he's Joly's friend, too, that's the trouble, I suppose. Joly doesn't like you, and Bossuet's dearer to him than you and knows it, and he knows who's more important. It's not meant, I don't imagine, to insult you, but you're simply not the one he lives with and stays joined to. Well, not surprising. I'm just pointing it out."

"Go 'way."

"I meant to. Feuilly and I are going home to eat with his sister. I just thought I'd tell you it's a pity, and I'm sorry, in my own fashion, if you can believe it. I'd tell you to clean yourself up a bit and try to make us like you more, but I suppose that's impossible and you don't want to. I don't really want to tell you anything, anyway. At any rate, good luck. Maybe Courfeyrac will join you when he comes in." Bahorel shrugged again. "Perhaps not. Good-night."

He, Grantaire, stared after him stupidly. What the hell was going on? What the _hell_ was going on?

Suddenly the effect of the wine and gin seemed lessened. He began to feel like Jeremie again. Jeremie was cringing, woefully, trying to understand why he was alone and nonplussed and felt so stupid and blank and unhappy. Jeremie was wincing and shaking his head.

"Bahorel?" he, Jeremie, muttered in confusion.

But Bahorel stood by the table with Feuilly, talking in that voice which sounded big and rough again. And Eagle was gone, with wretched Joly and Combeferre; and Prouvaire was asleep, and Courfeyrac hadn't come, and That Fine One was hidden in his back room.

He, Jeremie, could not help thinking of the dark, grey Paris skies, and of the dark, grey haze that wouldn't go away. He, Jeremie, could not help thinking about Eagle's missing, and what Eagle talked about, and about Sourire with her eyes like his mother's and the way she smiled sadly when he kissed her, as he had once or twice. He stared after Bahorel and wanted to understand, actually wanted, for a moment, to be sober, and then remembered that that would make him hate everything when what he wanted was to have an equity with it, and he was maudlin again and a sad, pathetic drunk, and everything was tattered and grey and rain-coloured.

How he _hated_ them. How he wanted Eagle's talking and Eagle's secret that he still couldn't remember and That Fine One's eyes, though they looked at him coldly, wanted those eyes to be his very own, wanted to keep those eyes hidden away from the rest of the world because really he was just as greedy and jealous as wretched Joly.

He, Jeremie, clutched the table and tried to roar with drunken rage, but only made an inaudible scratch in his throat. He, Jeremie, went back to his bottle and glass, his absinthe and wine, and was glad that Bahorel had not stayed, was glad that Bossuet had not stayed, was glad he had been left behind. He staggered to his feet. He thought of the dark, grey, ugly haze.

He wanted to kiss Sourire.


End file.
